Miles to Go
by NaomiP
Summary: Luka struggles with sleeplessness and PTSD after his return from the Congo. Mildly Lubyish. This story happens in a different fictional universe from my other Congorelated fics see author's note. Complete in 2 chapters.
1. Chapter 1

[Authors note. This was actually the first ER fic I ever wrote. (Not the first fan fic I ever wrote. Those date from sometime back in the Jurassic era, chiseled on stone tablets with dinosaur teeth.) It is, in many ways, an earlier version of the story I have written differently, and in far more detail, in my current fic[s], "Darkness" and "Into the Light."   
  
The most obvious difference is that this version follows "The Lost" as TPTB actually wrote and aired it. (With just a few minimal expansions on my part.) I got frustrated with what the writers were doing with Luka's character after he returned to Chicago, so I wrote what I thought they _should_ be doing. He'd experienced something pretty traumatic, right? (Not as bad as what I did to him, but horrible nonetheless.) He didn't even seem to care.   
  
The other obvious difference is that it's much shorter than my later fics. Just two chapters. I hadn't yet realized that I was capable of writing novels.]  
  
[I still don't own ER. I still don't own the characters of Luka Kovac or Abby Lockhart. I do still own the words on your screen and you need my permission before you do anything but read them or print them out for your own enjoyment.]  
  
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He sat straight up in bed. Shaking. Drenched in sweat. Mouth like sand. Voices rang and echoed in his ears; a confusion of screams, pleas for help and barked commands. Voices that mostly spoke French, but sometimes his own voice; hoarse and weak -- dying -- speaking Croatian.  
  
Malaria again? No. If only it were so simple. Malaria was relatively easy to treat. There seemed to be no cure for this. Luka gave himself a conscious shake (like using the paddles to cardiovert v-tach, he thought), to stop his shivering, and shake off the nightmare. Another night, another nightmare. Or rather, the same nightmare, over and over again.  
  
Luka wiped his damp face on the sheet, already clammy with his sweat, and lay back on the pillow. For a few minutes he tried to relax, staring into the darkness of his bedroom and listening to the sleety rain against the window. This was Chicago, not the Congo. They were only dreams now, only memories. Still, with so much good to remember from his time in Africa, why did only the horrors have to invade his dreams, take over his life? Why couldn't he dream about smiling, grateful patients? About working miracles with little more than his two hands and his wits? Even about Gillian? Why did he have to dream about this? Luka shuddered, then sighed and got out of bed. The clock said 2:10, but he knew he wouldn't sleep again.  
  
The first few nights he had managed to fall back to sleep, only to return to the same horrific dreams. The next night he'd just lain awake, staring at nothing until the alarm had told him it was time to get up for work. The next three he'd given up trying to stay in bed and had spent the night in the kitchen, downing endless cups of coffee. And last night had found him in his car at 1:45 a.m., losing himself in the dark streets; trying, without success, to escape.  
  
Luka turned on the shower and stood under the strong hot spray, letting it pound on the back of his neck and ease away some of the fatigue and tension. When the hot water was gone, he dressed and went out into the chilly night. A few minutes after 3 he stepped briskly through the doors into the bright and busy ER. Randi looked up in surprise.  
  
"Dr. Kovac! I didn't think you were on until 7."  
  
"I wasn't. But I'm here. And from the look of triage and the board, you can use me."  
  
Luka found his escape, and a new pattern for his days and nights. Work, to the exclusion of all else. At the end of each shift (and he was always willing to stay late if needed, as long as he could keep his eyes open), he would stumble home, exhausted, and fall into bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow. Sometimes he managed as much as 4 or 5 hours, more often only 2 or 3 were all that were granted him before the nightmares returned. He'd conditioned himself to waken as soon as they began now, like a mother waking to her baby's cries -- so he no longer had to deal with the dreams themselves -- the pain, the screams, the faces, the helplessness. The hopelessness. In their place, of course, was the numbing exhaustion of trying live with caffeine, long hot showers and relentless work taking the place of sleep. But he could manage. He was managing. One day at a time. It would stop. It had to stop.  
  
Luka knew that his co-workers were looking at him, whispering about him. And often, more and more often as the days and nights passed, came the friendly, concerned comments. "Are you o.k., Luka?" and "Pulling another double, Dr. Kovac?" To which, he always replied, with his practiced, easy smile, "I'm fine. Just a little tired." If only they knew how hard that easy smile was becoming.  
  
He was in the drug lock-up, getting meds for a patient, when suddenly he really _saw_ for the first time, the vast array of pills. God ... why hadn't he thought of it before? (He must be tired....) Just a few sleeping pills, surely they'd help him sleep soundly and well, without dreams. A few nights of good sleep were all he needed to get his feet back under him.  
  
The next thought came to him out of nowhere, catching him by surprise.  
  
_Or maybe more than just a few sleeping pills -- to end the nightmares for good._  
  
Luka almost laughed out loud at the absurdity, then closed his eyes, trembling, as he realized that the idea felt comfortable. Right. _Sleep for a night. Sleep forever. What would be the difference?_  
  
For several minutes Luka stood leaning against the wall, trying to think. He knew that his thoughts should be frightening him, but they weren't. Nothing had ever felt so right. Finally he took a deep breath. "Ok, Luka," he told himself. "Let's not rush into anything here. But we can leave our options open, right? That's the smart thing to do." After taking a quick look around, he poured a handful of Seconols into his fist, and dropped them into his pocket. Another deep breath, and he returned to his task of getting meds for his patient.  
  
A moment later a familiar, harsh voice startled him, making him jump.   
  
"Luka!" Kerry was standing in the doorway. "116 hours?"  
  
"What?"   
  
"Accounting says you clocked 116 hours last week; 94 the week before. I'd agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to 72 hours, _not_ 100 plus."  
  
"I need the money, I have the time, you're still short on attendings, and we have plenty of patients who need care. What's the problem?"  
  
"The problem is that you can't possibly keep this up. You're going to kill yourself!"  
  
"I'm fine, Kerry. Really. Just a little tired."  
  
"You don't look fine." Kerry's eyes narrowed as she gave him an appraising once-over. "You looked in the mirror lately, Kovac? You looked better the day you rolled in here on a gurney. In fact, if you want the honest truth..."  
  
"Actually no, I don't particularly," interrupted Luka briskly. "Patients don't come in here for my looks. The come in because they're sick. Have I killed any patients?" (He bit off the word 'yet' before it slipped out.)  
  
"No," Kerry admitted.  
  
"The other doctors or nurses been complaining about my work?"  
  
"No more than usual."  
  
"Then there's no problem. Let me be the judge of how much work I can handle. If you can't afford to pay me for the whole 116 hours, I'll take the 72 and we'll call it fair."  
  
"The money isn't the issue," Kerry said, then her voice softened. "Just do me a favor, Luka."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You haven't had a day off in weeks. Things are pretty slow today. Susan is on and I can come down if things get hairy. Finish your current patients or sign them off to Susan. Go home and get some sleep. You can come back tomorrow morning." Kerry smiled. "And that means 7, _not_ 2 or 3!"  
  
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Luka let himself into his apartment. How long had it been since he'd seen it by daylight? He'd barely answered Kerry, just nodded his agreement. Today, he could leave early. Then he'd hardly spoken to either Susan or Jerry before leaving. Talking would have meant thinking, and he didn't want to think yet. Not until he was safely out the door. Then, he'd spent several hours driving around town again, and out into the countryside -- just thinking.  
  
Rummaging in the cupboard he found a bottle of wine. A Cabernet. Decent vintage even. Gillian had bought it, but they'd never gotten around to drinking it. He drained the first two glasses quickly, then sat down to slowly savor the third, enjoying the taste, the warmth of the alcohol seeping through him, the way it calmed him, replacing his constant aching fatigue with a more pleasant drowsiness.   
  
Pouring a fourth glass, he carried it into the bedroom and set it on the bedside table. From his pocket came the handful of capsules, which he set carefully beside the glass. And, for a very long time, he just looked at them.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED... 


	2. Chapter 2

"Luka!" Someone was calling his name. A hand was shaking his shoulder roughly. God ... he hadn't been hungover like this in ages....   
  
Then he opened his eyes and squinted painfully to daylight through his bedroom window, and Abby sitting on the edge of the bed, with relief replacing the worry on her face.  
  
"Are you ok?" she asked.  
  
"Yeah..." Luka sat up, stifling a groan. "How did you get in?"  
  
"Your landlord let me in."  
  
"Why?" Luka's brain was still a fog under the dull headache pounding in his temples.  
  
"He knows me, remember? We were worried about you. You didn't show up for work this morning. You didn't answer your phone, or your cell phone, or your pager, or your doorbell. We wanted to make sure you were ok."  
  
Startled, remembering, Luka looked at the clock. 2:30. P.M. He'd slept for over 24 hours, through his alarm and the phone and the doorbell. And he hadn't dreamed even once.  
  
"How many did you take?" Abby asked gently.  
  
"What?"  
  
"How many Seconol did you take?"  
  
"Three... no, four, I think. Yeah, four." At the dubious look on Abby's face he said, "I wasn't stupid, Abby."  
  
"Four hundred milligrams and the better part of a bottle of wine? Sounds pretty stupid to me."  
  
Luka shook his head, wincing a little, but summoning the presence of mind to formulate a lie. "No, just the one glass. It wasn't a new bottle." A deep breath. "I needed to sleep. I haven't been sleeping much." She still, clearly, didn't believe him. She'd heard this one before. "Come on, Abby." He motioned to the 30 or so capsules still on the night-table. "If I'd wanted to hurt myself, I would have finished them, right?" His voice broke a little. Of course it did. His mouth was bone dry.  
  
"Ok. Whatever." Abby sighed. "What's going on, Luka."  
  
"Nothing. I told you. I'm just tired." Suddenly aware that he was still sitting in bed -- entertaining company from his bed -- Luka got up. Careful to not let Abby see how shaky he was, he used the bathroom, then went into the kitchen to put on coffee. Abby followed, continuing her interrogation.  
  
"I'm not stupid either, Luka. I know that you have not been yourself. I haven't seen you in weeks."  
  
"Not my fault that you're on your peds rotation and Dr. Moore believes that your time is best spent in the clinic doing well-baby check-ups rather than in the ER."  
  
"When I do make it down to the ER, you avoid me. I've left a dozen messages on your machine, and you haven't called me back once. But it's no secret, even to me, that you've been working 18 and 20 hour days. You don't sleep, you don't eat.   
  
"It seems like you were doing so well for first few weeks back, and now you're just coming apart. Have you talked to anyone since you came home? Like a counselor?"  
  
Luka turned quickly, and busied himself with getting cups, so Abby wouldn't see the look of pain that crossed his face. "Why should I be coming apart? I'm fine! I'm alive, and lucky to be that way! I'm going through a rough patch right now. I'll get through it -- I just need a little time. You're right, the pills were pretty stupid --"  
  
"Damn, it, Luka!" Abby exploded. "What is wrong with you? I really don't get it. You devote your life to helping other people. You _live_ to help other people" (Luka winced again) "but God forbid someone should suggest to you that _you_ need help, that you can't do it all yourself all the time -- and you act like it's some sort of personal attack on your manhood." Abby put her hand on his, and he pulled away quickly. "You need help, Luka."  
  
"So, you're a psychiatrist now?" snapped Luka. "I thought you were just a fourth year med student. And, word has it, and from what I've seen, not such a great one." Luka regretted that last remark the moment it was out of his mouth. Was he really going to fall back into old habits? Or let his own pain make him hurt Abby, who really was only trying to help? Abby, thankfully, seemed to choose to ignore the remark.  
  
"I'm not a psychiatrist, haven't even done my psych rotation yet. But it doesn't take a psychiatrist, or a genius, to guess that some pretty awful things must have happened to you out there -- I mean, my God -- they told us you were dead. Something is eating you up inside, and I don't think it's something that time is going to heal. Not without some help."  
  
For a few minutes Luka busied himself with small tasks around the kitchen, and Abby waited patiently. "Coffee?" he asked her, and she shook her head. Finally, he could delay no longer. He poured his own cup, then sat across from her and, for a moment, put his face in his hands. A deep breath.  
  
"Ok. Abby. You really want to know what happened to me in Africa, that just might be making me 'come apart'?" A barely perceptable nod.  
  
"What part would you like to hear about first? Shall I tell you how I had to watch -- and listen -- or be unable to see or hear, but still _know_ that it was happening -- as my patients, and my friends, and my staff, and people from the village, and innocent bystanders who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time -- were raped, and beaten, and tortured ... and then murdered. How I had to know, the whole time it was happening, that there was nothing -- absolutely nothing, I could do to help them ... or myself.  
  
"All I could do was wait, and pray, in the heat, and the flies -- our hands were tied, so we couldn't even brush away the flies," Luka shuddered at the memory, then gathered himself and went on. "I was so sick already, the malaria. All I could do was wait for my turn to come. But it never did." A brief, bitter smile. "I mean, I got plenty of turns at the beatings and pointless tormenting, but they didn't kill me. I just had to kneel there, in the dirt, while they took everyone else away, one by one... or killed them where they were.  
  
"When it was all over, everyone was dead except the one little girl -- she had been my patient, they didn't hurt her, the one woman, and me. I don't know why they didn't kill me. I remember them saying something about a priest. I was so sick by then, with the heat and the malaria and thirst I don't remember a lot very clearly. I think they thought I was one.... or maybe they figured that I was already so sick that it would be a waste of a bullet to shoot me.  
  
"The next day, the soldiers put the bodies in the truck. Sakina and I were supposed to walk, and carry Chance, but I was so sick -- I kept fainting. They'd finally given me water, but I couldn't keep it down. So they put me in the truck too.  
  
"They took us ... I don't know where it was -- a village somewhere. It took most of the day to get there. They left us there, and the truck went on. There was a hut for us. It was filthy, but it was shelter from the sun.  
  
"I kept getting sicker and sicker. Sakina was trying to take care of me, and take care of her daughter. She was so kind to me... the only good part of that whole nightmare .... Chance had been my patient, and now I couldn't help her at all. There was no medicine, almost no food or clean water -- everything was filthy, horrible. I was so sick.  
  
"I was dying, Abby. I knew I was dying, but it was ok. I was ready to go. By that time I'd made my peace, and I just wanted it to all be over. But it seemed to go on and on. I'd be delirious for a while, or sleep for what felt like days, and be sure that I'd never wake up and then I'd wake up and still be in that horrible place. I don't know if it was days, or weeks ... sometimes I thought I was already dead -- and it was Hell, and had gone on forever, and _would_ go on forever.  
  
"The last thing I can remember thinking clearly was wondering _why_ they hadn't just shot me, wishing they'd shot me -- it would have been so much easier, so much less pain. After that, there was more delirium -- I can remember begging over and over for water, but I think I was asking in Croatian, so they didn't understand me." Luka allowed himself a brief smile at that. "Then, the next thing I knew I was in the hospital in Kisangani, and Carter and Gillian were there, and everyone was telling me how lucky I was to be alive."  
  
Luka fell silent. He was exhausted; drained. During his narrative he'd left his seat, and, after pacing for a few moments, had retreated across the room and stood staring out the window. Now, for the first time, he dared look back at Abby. She was white, both hands pressed over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. She was shaking. Luka took a deep breath to still his own trembling and made his own voice light. "You _did_ ask, Abby."  
  
"Yeah..." Abby said, shakily. "And I'd still rather know, than not know. You shouldn't have to face all that alone."  
  
A longish silence, then Luka said softly, "I'm not lucky. I _should_ be dead."  
  
Abby's reply was quick and firm. "No. You should be alive. You _are_ alive, which means that's what is meant to be."  
  
"Very philosophical," Luka swallowed his cold coffee, as bitter as his words.  
  
"I don't know why you survived, Luka, but you did. And I'm not sorry. Neither are all the patients you've helped, and can still help. You have so much to give."  
  
"Haven't I given enough?" Luka shut his eyes and steadied himself. "Twelve years ago, when Danjela and my kids died, I should have died too. That's what I wanted. But everyone told me that I'd been spared for a reason, and I tried to believe that. Some of the reasons they gave me were religious bullshit, but some seemed to make sense -- that I'd be happy again, that I could give so much to others, and I _would_ be glad to be alive. And that I'd understand why I'd lived when the three people I loved most in the world -- more than myself, had died."  
  
"Luka..." Abby started to say, putting a hand on his arm, but he pulled away impatiently and went on.  
  
"And then, in Matenda, it happened all over again. I should have died. So many others died, and I survived... and I still don't know why. It isn't right. I was _so_ ready, Abby. It felt so right. I'd prayed, for the first time in so long. I knew it would be ok... I wasn't afraid, I knew I'd be with Danjela again ... or, at least, at peace, and out of my pain. But it didn't happen. There was just days and weeks of agony... and a return to a lifetime of pain.  
  
"It's been twelve years, Abby, and I still don't understand. Giving to others, should be enough. But it isn't. Not anymore. I need something for myself too. It's not your fault. It's nobody's fault. But I can't do this anymore."  
  
Luka had retreated again to his post by the window. He was again, silent for a moment, and Abby waited. He kept his eyes focused on the street outside, and his voice softed. "Last night.... I should have died. I would have died, except that I didn't have the courage to make it happen."  
  
"Oh Luka... no..." Abby whispered.  
  
"I wanted to. The idea going to sleep and not waking up ... maybe even being with Danjela and my kids again ... it seemed so good ... so much better than anything I could have here ... but when it came down to it, I couldn't do it." His hands clenched into fists and his voice had softened to where it was barely audible, even to himself. "So I took the four pills .. I'd already drunk most of the wine," and went to sleep. Figured I'd at least get a good night's sleep out of the deal." A shaky, humorless laugh.  
  
"The fact that you didn't go through with it says to me that really aren't ready to die," Abby said.  
  
"I wish it were that simple. More likely it means that I was raised Catholic. We both know what the church has to say about suicide. The big sin, right? I kept trying to tell myself that it didn't matter ... that any compassionate God would understand, would know how much pain I was in -- or that it wasn't really suicide at all, but I was just finishing something that should have happened a long time ago. But there was still this little bit of doubt. I couldn't get past it. I couldn't do it.  
  
"And so now it's today.... and I'm still here." And the tears took him by surprise, and suddenly Luka was sitting on the floor, sobbing. He dimly felt Abby's arms around him, and finally allowed himself to be comforted.  
  
He cried for a very long time. For Patrique. For Danjela and Marko and Jasna. And mostly for himself.  
  
When, finally, there were no more tears, Abby said, very gently, "Will you get help, Luka? Check yourself in for a few days? It doesn't have to be County. You can go anywhere you feel comfortable. Just so you get help."  
  
Luka nodded, numb, exhausted. "County's fine. If you promise to visit me every day."  
  
"It's a promise."  
  
THE END 


End file.
